The End of a Career

 

After teaching in a dozen schools across six countries on 5 continents, I would like to end on a high. I am feeling more tired these days, more skeptical and less interested in earning money. My current superintendent just sent me a sealed note I had written to myself about why I got into teaching. The unfortunate fact is, I fell into teaching due to the fact that most expected me to be a teacher like my mother, and I wanted to explore the world.  Overseas teaching allowed me to do both, and the life style seemed to suit our family. 

 I have had moments of success that have convinced me to stay in teaching, and other catastrophic failures that haunt me in my dreams.  I desperately want some highs to minimize the low points when I look back over my 31 years of teaching. However, I am finding out that it doesn't work just to "try harder". Students will let you do all the work if you are not careful, and that means I end up learning more than they do. I also do not enjoy all the policing and ineffective motivating I do in my Media lessons.  How to make lessons fun and still be educationally engaging without the students running riot?

So in the last few weeks before I retire, I have been thinking of how I can make a difference to those who need it the most.  Although most schools I taught in cater for high income families, there are always a few students who have fewer opportunities in life: the ones who have no books at home; no access to a library; no technology or wifi; no time for clubs; no money for travel...  If I can provide a experience for these children that they would not otherwise have had, then I have made a difference. Their genuine smiles, as they choose books in the library or get a robot to work, make my day, and my career. 

These students don't really understand the value of  new opportunities that others take for granted. They simply appreciate being able to do something that makes them feel happy, successful and empowered. I notice how our 'scholarship' kids love coming to the library and take full advantage of our opening hours and collection. They have become my assistants, knowing how to find books and use the online catalog. For them school is both fun and serious business. Their parents are even more appreciative for this opportunity, being very involved however they can.  

More than anything, students from less privileged homes are getting more than an education from me, they are learning to take charge of their learning and their future. I thank my Marshallese Rikatak students for the memories they have given me.  I will always remember the little Kindergarten students asking me each time they come to the library: "Can I go to the big kids side?"

A Day in the Life of a Military Contract Teacher

 

I know, there is no such thing as a Military Contract Teacher, because military schools are run by DoDEA. However, I live and work on Kwajalein, which is the only military base with a school run by the military contractor.  Not only is this school unique in the fact that it is on a remote island atoll n the middle of the Pacific, but it also is run by a company with no experience in running educational establishments.  Let me give you a peek into a day of a teacher in a school run like a construction project or a supermarket. 

We teachers are paid by the hour, which is meaningless. I arrive at work, where I am the media specialist, when I please. I might delay my commute if it is raining, or decide to walk the one block to school. I unlock the library and check the AC. If it is not working (not infrequent) I have to plan to relocate and replan my lessons for the day. Last Saturday, a school day here, the AC was working, and I readied my space for the day's Library and STEM classes. Then I check my emails and see that three teachers will be out today, with no coverage or substitutes available. 

One of the teachers out today has been absent for over two months, but each day there is need to find a sub as if she just called in sick this morning.  Another teacher is battling illness, unexpected to complete the year, yet no one has considered finding her help or back up. Other teachers are in a position where they are either stressed out, or feel guilty about taking time off.  So we start the school day without three teachers, seeing what events unfold.

A specialist teacher is roped in to teach grade 1. She arrived late in the school year, due to another hire balking at the prospect of not being assigned housing on island, and didn't want to live in Batchelor Quarters without a kitchen and eat in the chow hall.  Since arriving, this teacher has found herself subbing nonstop for absent teachers in the ES, leaving little time for her assigned role. Systems are 'flexible' in our small island school, so when someone is replacing the regular teacher they are faced with no lesson plans or up-to-date schedule... just do whatever it takes to get through the day. As a consequence, students show up at the library at unscheduled times and without much warning. 

Half way through the day, the Kindergarten sub must of bailed, because the little tots showed up at my door looking like sheep without a shepherd. I lined them up and marched them back to their homeroom, hearing their complaints all the way. Half way there, some lively students decided to barricade the door, shutting their classmates outside. It took several administrators to unblock the door, but by then the students were trying to pull the fire alarm in the hall. After some stern words, I finally succeeded in corralling the little ones on the Library carpet ready for a story. At that point the teacher assistant announced that she needed the restroom, and I realized that I would be going it alone.

These students are like those is every other school... they need stability. It is already hard to lose students and friends as military families take on new assignments around the world. Starting a school year without a full teaching staff is never easy.  But seeing your colleagues come and go due to inappropriate military contract guidelines is just heartbreaking. 

Back To My Roots

 

People have been relocating since the beginning of time; human migration is not only a recent endeavor. We move for economic and professional reasons, following loved ones and seeking more opportunities or a better quality of life. I, myself, have changed addresses dozens of times.  Looking back I see that it was my grandparents who started this trend. 

My grandmother, recently widowed, was forced to take up a position as a housekeeper in Kent and send her boys away to boarding school. My father received a grant for an elite school that was a fast track to Oxford University. There he studied Latin and Arabic and began to envisage a life abroad exploring new cultures and unwritten languages.

My grandfather moved from shopkeeping in the north of England to take up a position of Head of China Missions in London. My mother, still at school, benefitted from a higher level of education and meeting all the missionaries who stayed in the house between visits abroad. My grandfather, himself, traveled extensively throughout the world and especially China, before there were hotels and airports.  It is no wonder that my parents met and immediately sailed to South America, giving birth to my eldest brother on the way. I was born and brought up in Brazil, with only occasional visits and holidays with family in England. As I grow older, and with nostalgia, I have begun to look back and visit the places I come from: my roots.

I took my family back to Rio, where I was born, but did not get a sense of returning. I have no family there since my parents merely stopped over there on their way back to the UK via New York. The city of Rio is big and a stressful place to bring up three little boys.  I also went back to the interior of Brazil where my parents had taken me on their trips to work with a tribal language. It was nice to see some of the people who knew me as a child, but the heat and hard sleeping surface made me long for the comforts of home. I see why I moved to the first world where there is AC and fewer cockroaches.

Yesterday, however, really felt like I was rediscovering my roots. My brother drove me down to Kent to visit my father's grave. He loved the area of Seasalter, near Whitstable, where the seawall holds back the water from the flat land for sheep to graze and a refuge for birds. It made sense to lay him to rest among the birds he loved.  Years later he was joined by his brother and sister-in-law, who had lived close by.  And more recently, my mother was buried along side my father.  We put flowers on the freshly dug grave and then wandered around the graveyard and the tiny church that is mentioned in the Dooms Day Book as far back as 1086.  I found another Taylor grave stone, so old and weatherworn that it could hardly be read: "Phyllis Taylor", my great aunt.  Her watercolors, along with those painted by my uncle, hang on the walls of my Minnesota home. The grave stone was leaning slightly, falling forward and

obscuring the name of another Taylor, "Bessie Taylor", as my grandmother was known. A newer plot, without a headstone yet, marked the resting place of my cousin. I could have stayed longer, but the church was locked and it began to rain... just to be with family!

My brother and I continued on to Tankerton, a seaside village where my cousins had grown up. The great old house has now changed owners and is being renovated. We walk down St.Annes Road to the sea front "just to see if the sea is still there", as my aunt always said. It was, flat and calm and exactly as I remember it from previous visits. As if following family tradition, we ate our sandwiches for lunch while watching the seagulls fly and cry.

One cousin still lives nearby, in the city of Canterbury, and we used her house for parking.

Canterbury is now a buzz with foreign tourists, but still stands for a time when kings ruled and competed for power with the church.  The priest Thomas a Becket was murdered in the Cathedral by Henry II; and another King Henry, the VIIIth, closed down the monastery and sent the monks packing. The ruins of the monastery are still there along with a herb garden that needed some weeding.  The tomb of the Black Prince occupies a prominent position in the cathedral although he was known for his brutality. The cathedral has stood for a millennium and a half, survived fires and world wars, enshrining our heritage.... my heritage.

After the cathedral we stopped in a coffee shop and ordered, not coffee, but cream teas. It might have been my American accent, but the server heard "green teas".  He looked baffled when I corrected him.... he obviously doesn't know about my roots.

Let Nature Disappoint

 

I went to Alaska for the wildlife. I know there is more to see: mountains, fiords, glaciers and northern lights. But I really wanted to see the bears, moose, whales and puffin. We planned our trip to include both a bus ride and a boat ride through National Parks that cater for those looking to see the "Big 5".  I was guaranteed to see everything on my checklist.

Moose were easy to see. Mothers and calves hung around the car park, while males fed along the road. Check✔. Our bus driver pointed out a few lonely caribou, but everyone wanted to see bears.  We did finally see a couple of grizzlies that were so far away you needed binoculars to identify them. Check ✔??

We saw smaller creatures; squirrels, hare, shrew and ptarmigan. I have to admit I was disappointed. Where were the large herds and prearranged  sightings?

The landscape was empty, cold and colorless, nothing like my African safari that drove us through prancing antelope up to a river full of hippo. Denali National Park is home to quite a variety of wildlife, but most are solitary roamers, spreading out to feed without over grazing or competing for food. Their active season is so short, they spend all the summer months constantly searching for food and avoiding other predators. The Dall sheep stay high up on the slopes and many of the wolves actually leave the park in search of easier food. Although the park limits the number of cars driving in, there were no animals crossing the road.  There was no need for the animals to hang around humans, as they had the whole of 6 million acres to escape into.  May is only the beginning of the tourist season, and most plants hadn't even leafed out yet.  Snow still covered higher valleys and no fish swam in the streams. 

I put my disappointment aside and put my faith in seeing a whale for the first time when we reached Seward. The boat tour was almost cancelled due to bad weather. I braved the cold rain and high waves to go out on the bow to watch the Dall's porpoises swim alongside. This was a first for me, but not one of the Big 5. As we carried on through the rough seas, it became clear that we would not see anything under the water. Our captain drew our attention to some "blow" that could be humpback and another he claimed was evidence of orca, but I never saw anything by choppy waves. Puffins flew by in the misty rain, but I never got a good glimpse of their colorful beaks.  

I appreciated the cool blue ice of the glacier, but again I

felt slightly let down.  I needed to go back over all I had seen and learned from my trip to Alaska to realize that each glimpse of wildlife there was a gift, a rare peek into life on our planet. The tundra was home to wild flowers, grasses, moss and lichen. The cold is intimidating to humans, but sustains an ecosystem.  Predators are a part of a balanced food chain that weeds out the old and sick to create a healthy animals. They know to keep their distance from humans, because we are the unpredictable ones. 

Part of me still wished to have that bear encounter, or see a whale surface. But what I realized was that I was looking in the wrong places. A zoo, aquarium or natural museum would have given me a close up look of these amazing creatures. The Natural Parks provide a safe place for wildlife to hide from hunters and live in seclusion. They don't put them on display.

Really we should be leaving the wildlife alone, respecting its right to privacy.  I have heard of tour boats that corral whales to ensure sightings; game keepers that tag big cats to be able to show them off; vendors that set up stalls along the road side to feed the elephants from tourists' cars; training animals to give shows like circuses. 

My learning to appreciate a wild view empty of rare animals, is one way to respect wildlife. The fact that I paid money to go to Alaska does not guarantee my seeing certain animals, it does give me a chance to learn about their habitat and why preserving it is so important. 

Torn in Three

 

It is the second time in a few weeks that I have flown from my workplace on Kwajalein over to my home in Minnesota, and then on to my mother's home in England.... and back. If you are looking down at the earth on the North Pole, Kwajalein would be at 12:00, Minnesota at 9:00 and London at 6:00.  We are talking about half way around the world and back, twice. 

Why?  Well I find myself in a position where I have pressing reasons to be in all three locations. I have a contract to teach Media through the end of May to my students in the Marshalls. And teachers are hard to replace.  When I am not there, the library doesn't open, and students fill time waiting for me to return on island. My sons live in Minnesota, and there, also, is the only home I have ever owned. It is a place to relax and be me. And then my mother's address in London is where I go to keep in contact with family, and honor the memory of when we were all younger and lived closer together.

Recently I have felt the pull to return to England and spend time with my mother. This became more intense as my mother's health worsened, and needed a full time carer. I would go every summer, until it became clear that she would not last until next summer.  People say, "You should go..." and "It's just a plane ticket." But as soon as I arrive, I feel the need to go back, to fulfill my duties in the classroom. And so it becomes a constant tension of feeling the pull to travel there, when I am here.  I need to be there in order to be able to afford being here.  I don't know how to give up one  with losing the other.

There was I time when I also felt the pull to return to Brazil. It did not seem right that I turn my back on my childhood, and roots that contribute to making me who I am. But my options in Brazil were hindered by complicated name changes and identification papers. In the end I lost my passport, without the chance of renewal... so I turned towards making my home in the US. 

By making a home, I mean buying a house and spending a few days of the year in it in order to keep my residence papers current. It is always a joy to return to my home, my sons, my garden, my kitchen. I look forward to being there, even if it is only for a few days on the way to somewhere else. My clothes hang in the closet, my toothbrush by the sink, the lights are on, and someone is there to welcome me home. But I can't stay home too long... because we all need to work, to earn our way, ... and have health insurance.  So I leave again, and go back to work in one of the few places that still wants a school librarian.   

I am here in England to say goodbye to my dear mother, whose decision to leave home and work abroad probably started me on this path. I cannot say for sure what, or where, I will be living next year. But I do know that my pull to come back to the UK will not lessen. I will continue to need that connection with family here. I want to spend time with my mother's things, and refresh the memory of all that she was to me. That will not go away.  I want to come in the summer and smell her roses, clean her windows and answer her mail.  I want to care for the legacy that she created.  But I have obligations elsewhere. How is it that I have got myself into this three way tug-of-war? I want to be in three places at the same time.  Is this making me three dimensional... or torn apart? And will I ever be able to choose one place to settle?

Visiting Roi-Namur

 

This is an island most will never visit. In possession of the US Military since WW2, it houses top secret radar and optics facilities in the middle of the Pacific. Because I am employed as a government contractor, I am allowed access for R&R from my nearby home of Kwajalein. The flight in is free, although there are no flights at all on weekends. I can only take advantage of this getaway if I leave after the work week is over on Saturday, and return before work on Tuesday. I travel there as "space available".  Those who work daily on Roi take precedence when the flights are boarded. There is a sort of hotel room for visitors, which is in fact a dorm room, with attached bathroom.

We are grateful of the bus service which takes us around the runway to our quarters. The island is actually two islands, Roi and Namur, that have been joined by filling in the gap between them. On Roi you will find the airport, runway and 'downtown'.  Namur houses the radars and other working facilities. 

As usual, the weather is rainy, and so we head to the nearest beach shack to relax before dinner. There is the mess hall, or a snack bar serving pizza and burgers. I am always curious to talk with those who call this place their home.  It is both remote and rustic. Much of the island is overgrown, chickens range during the day, and rats swarm at night.  A walk under the stars may also bring out the coconut crabs.  

Now I invite you to take a tour with me, of an island you will never visit. 

In the morning we walk anti-clockwise around Roi, stopping first at the Gabby Shack.  This platform deck looks ocean side, a great place to watch the sunset.

At high tide the palm trees lean out over the water, at low tide there are tide pools to explore. We find clam shells, old Coke bottles and what looks like an aircraft wing. There are also bullets and shell casings to be found, although we are not encouraged to remove them.  Crabs seems to sleep in the shallows, and sharks pass close to the beach. Everywhere there are palm fronds and coconuts littering the beach. 

At the end of the runway we pass the incinerator. This is the same site that housed the Japanese incinerator during their stay in WW2.  We find old bottles, canteens and sea glass from those days. 

A spit of sand reaches out toward the next islands in the atoll, but we turn and walk along the lagoon side of the island to the airport. Here the beach is sandy and wide, perfect for swimming and families with small children. 

We walk the rest of the way around the island passing the old Japanese headquarters. Their bunkers are crumbling now, and safe only for rats.  The US bombed the islands before invading, taking out all existing vegetation.  The palm trees that now line the road ways were all planted post war. 

After lunch we get a ride on a golf cart to the marina on Namur. Today is a special day because families with children have been invited over to 'trick-or-treat' from neighboring Third Island. About 300 Marshallese will come over by boat and ferry, and walk around the work facilities for candy.  From our chairs at the Dive Shack, we watch them arrive. Many of the parents work on island, and this is a family day out for them. Although this is not the only time they have access to American products. The base runs a grocery store for Third Island residents that sells American food. 

'Trick- or-treating' over, we head out for a swim. The reef between the islands provides a shallow channel where water rushes in with the tide.  We waded in ocean side, and let the current carry us along the shore to be deposited on a spit of sand lagoon side. I was ill equipped for such a ride, and managed to scrape along and clamber over the coral reef. Still, I was better off than our friend who had brought his dog.  The animal quickly decided against the rapids and took off into the jungle. After we found everyone, we headed back to Roi, a shower and a hot meal.

Roi Namur is a the ideal island for a weekend getaway, despite the fact that there are no flights to and from on the weekend, and most of the facilities there are closed as well.  One is forced to hike, relax in a hammock, dive or snorkel.  There is nothing to spend your money on, no souvenirs, restaurants or hotels.  I was fortunate to have some night life on my visit, as I was traveling with the band, Anywhere Atoll. They provided great music for partying each evening.  It was quite an anticlimax to have to wake up before dawn and take the flight back to work.

"I know my father did his part to secure the freedom I now enjoy — with the 23rd Marines, 4th Division, and the battles to secure Roi-Namur, Saipan, Tinian and Iwo Jima." B Stone

Meeting Nature Halfway

 

The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew, in London, are open all year round and draw crowds to see their displays, structures and landscaping.  There you can visit a Japanese garden, an orchid house, a giant bee hive and every other imaginable collection of plants. Where to go first? I always go to the Kitchen Garden.  It is hard find, as traditional kitchen gardens are, hidden behind tall brick walls. You enter through archways covered in climbing roses and clematis.  One long wall is the backdrop for a bed of different salvia (sage) plants that vary in color from purple and white to red and orange. Each type is neatly labeled with a printed sign. 

The lavender is in bloom, covering the roots of the pear trees.  The apple trees are carefully pruned to stand no more than 4 foot in height, and already laden with fruit. There are peas on poles, flowering herbs and decorative lettuces. Far from being planted in rows, they are allowed free roam of the beds, separated only by a grassy walkway. The result was a cornucopia of color and abundance. I found one bed with a sign: 

Bee Nutrition

The crops in this bed are being grown for their flowers.  Kew Science will be collecting the flowers and analyzing the nutrient content of the pollen as a food source for bees. 

The bed seemed to be growing herbs and vegetables. Interesting that only the flowers would be harvested!  This neither fit with my idea of a vegetable garden or a flower garden. 

Before I had time to dwell on the true purpose of this garden, I spied another fenced area behind a bank of daisies so thick it became a mound of white. Inside I spied more flowers, and large leafy vegetables all tumbled together. The fence was covered in grape vine, with some raspberries peeking through the gaps. Wild flowers like cornflower and

poppies were allowed to grow where they wished. Here, too, I found colorful sweet-peas growing up makeshift canes tied together with string. On exiting this lovely corner I discovered it was connected to the School of Horticulture, and these were the students' gardens. Imagine this being a school assignment! 

A traditional kitchen garden, which grew herbs and fruit for the household, was always enclosed by a high wall. I initially thought this was to protect the more delicate plants from the elements and rabbits.  However, it turns out the walls were to hide the garden from the family when they used the formal gardens. Gardeners could continue to work unseen throughout the day, and, this is what really intrigues me, the beds

did not have to appear immaculate or tidy. Wild flowers, and some weeds, were allowed to grow for no reason other than their fresh natural look. Experiments could fail, without anyone knowing. Lettuce and sunflowers were allowed to go to seed, providing a later crop and food for the birds. Flowers could be cut for the table, or simply left to brighten up the beds. Nature was allowed to thrive behind closed walls. 

I had to look hard, but I knew I would find nasturtiums in the students' kitchen garden. These flowers are seldom found in formal flower gardens despite their vibrant beauty. They tend to be untidy and break the rules of what makes a showy display. They cannot be cut for arrangements, but the flowers are edible (tasting like radishes) and can

be added to salads. They do not have a strong stem, but tend to climb and clamber over whatever is nearby. If you try to stake them up with a cane, they rebel and grow down, rather than up. This is because they lack tendrils and flop in the breeze. The flowers change color on a single plant, from yellow to orange to red, and quickly seed down to pop up in the wrong places. I love them. I let them do their thing and marvel at their natural way of bringing beauty to unexpected spots.  I have stopped trying to cultivate them, I just let them be, and occasionally nibble on their flowers. 

One October I visited the kitchen garden of a manor house in southern England. Most of the beds had been cleared for winter, but the

nasturtiums still grew haphazardly around the borders, in their last hurrah. Their straggly flowers, blazing with color, were such a contrast to the carefully tended empty beds. I like to think that I allow nature to delight in my garden, without my interference.